


Good

by samusisagirl



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, I don't know how to tag this, Implied Future Light Bondage?, Sexual Content, Smut, Wine, denial?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:22:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samusisagirl/pseuds/samusisagirl
Summary: Hawke and Fenris drink some wine and get a little kinky. Yeah, that's basically it.





	Good

Hawke looked over at the white-haired elf lounging on the bed beside her, a sensible goblet of wine in her hand while he took long swings from the bottle. Her brows knit together for a moment, tilting her head as she watched him take another gulp.

“What?” he asked, his voice gruff and curt as always. He held out the bottle to her, eyebrow raised in silent question. She stretched out her cup in response. He sloshed some of the red liquid into the glass, then drew the bottle back for another drink. 

“You’re not some ancient elven god, are you?” she asked, a small smile tugging on her lips. She tried to look serious, maybe slightly worried, but she’d always been a terrible actress.

Fenris snorted, then glanced over at her. “No.”

Always so serious. Except when he wasn’t. 

When Varric had told her he had apparently been just down a short hall from a god all those months working for the Inquisition, calling the mage Chuckles and making fun of his dreary sartorial choices, she had only laughed and shrugged. She had killed an ancient magister only to have him come back and almost destroy the world. She had faced a giant spider in the Fade and lived to the tell the tale. Barely. She’d carried a goddess inside an amulet for weeks before trekking up a mountain to release her. She also seen her transform into a dragon. Very little could surprise Hawke now. Though, it had given her pause. How many ancient elven gods _were_ roaming Thedas in apostate’s rags or hidden in rusty necklaces? 

Hawke had only met the elf named Solas once, when she traveled to Skyhold to meet the Inquisitor. He had seemed a very inauspicious man, stoic and reserved. Often speaking in a strange lilting cadence about the Fade. He had reminded her a bit of Merill. Not at all how she would have imagined a trickster god of ancient lore to behave. Though what did she know? She was a _shemlen_. Maybe all Elvhen gods were sexually repressed scholars. 

Varric had already started working on a novel about the Inquisitor and the apostate-cum-god’s rumored love affair. Called _The Wolf’s Heart_ or some such nonsense. The first draft had been very good. 

“Why?” Fenris asked after a long silence. He set the bottle down on the table beside the bed, now empty. There was the slightest flush under his tan skin, his green eyes glowing from the light of the nearby fireplace. 

She shrugged and knocked back the rest of her own wine, then pushed herself up on all fours to crawl over him. She placed her empty goblet next to his bottle, but instead of withdrawing to her side of the bed she stayed hovering above him. 

“Thought I’d ask.” She hummed as she leaned down to trace her lips down the side of his jaw, her teeth ever so gently grazing his skin. His markings flared briefly, and he went to wrap his arms around her, but she was too quick. In one swift motion, she pinned his wrists back down on the bed as her lips curled up in a half smile half snarl. He looked equally vicious, but his eyes were shining with amusement. And hunger. 

“Just in case,” she added. 

“If I was, it would be unwise to pin me down.” His voice was deep and rumbling—like a thunderstorm—and it sent sparks of electricity across her skin. She loved his voice. Even after years of hearing it, it still made her shiver. Especially when his lips were pressed to her ear and he spoke for her alone. He had caught on to her weakness for it quickly, and ever since enjoyed slipping up behind her when they were in pubic to tease her. His touch would be feather light, but he would whisper debauched and delicious things into her ear, his breath hot against her neck, only to pull away immediately as his eyes held a promise for later. Later could never come soon enough. 

She tightened her grip. They were alone now. “And what would you do to me if you were?”

“I’m afraid I can only punch through a man’s chest and rip out his heart,” he said. His markings flared again, this time the light lingering before it faded.

She made a sound of pleasure in the back of her throat, lowering herself to rock against growing bulge pressing against his pants. Her elbows were still locked over his pinned wrists. He was bare chested, wearing only a pair of form-fitting trousers that left little to speculation. She was wearing nothing more than one of his tunics and her underthings herself. The two of them had stripped down after a long day on the road and ordered a bottle of wine to be brought up immediately.  


All right. A few bottles. 

They had rented the suite at The Hanged Man, arriving under cover of darkness to visit their old friend, Varric. There was a slight irony to the former Champion of Kirkwall slumming it in Lowtown while Varric lived in his swanky estate as newly-elected Viscount. He had offered to put them up, but she and Fenris always felt more at home with low company. And they didn’t have to worry about making too much noise when they inevitably couldn't keep their hands off one another and scandalizing everyone in the manor within earshot. The tavern below was always full of loud drunkards getting into brawls or singing bawdy songs. The moans and growls just melted in with the ruckus.

“That’s what I like about you,” she said, leaning down to plant a kiss on his slightly parted mouth.

He let out a hoarse chuckle, biting at her bottom lip. “You’re mad,” he murmured. 

“Probably.” Hawke smiled wide. 

“And that’s what I like about you,” he said. 

She could feel his muscles tighten beneath her, his entire body coiling before he flipped her over onto her back and pinned her own wrists against the bed. The thin lines that covered his body were glowing in full force now. She trailed them with her eyes, starting from his chin and down his neck to the branching design across his chest. The lyrium brands were terrible and beautiful all at once, glowing against the light brown of his skin, highlighting his white hair with blue strands. He brought his mouth down to her throat, licking his way up to her ear. His voice was barely more than a growl as he spoke.

“What would _you_ have me do?”

She writhed beneath him, desperate for more contact, and lifted a knee to press it between his legs. Fenris sucked in a breath through his teeth, eyes fluttering closed as he moved against her. She could feel him hardening at her touch, see the length of him growing and straining against the dark fabric of his pants. His cock was almost fully erect now and demanding attention. 

She bit her lip. Would he be up for her little game? He often had little patience for her more adventurous suggestions in bed. “I think it’s the _ancient elven god_ who should be doing the commanding.”

"What--" he began, looking confused. Hawke rolled her eyes.

"Just--" She sighed, then lowered her eyelashes and bit her lip. "Just go with it," she murmured.

He seemed hesitant, but didn't balk when she told him, in her most sultry tone, "I'm yours to command."

He chuckled again, that same low guttural laugh that rolled through her, but his eyes grew dark, pupils expanding to consume most of his green irises. "Mine," he said. She felt her breath catch in her throat. 

Her mind was swimming from the wine and her entire body was flushed with heat, but the second had little to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the way he was looking at her. Like a wolf about to devour its prey. She could feel the need building between her legs, the steady desperate pulse of it. 

“Yes.” A question. A plea. 

He only released her wrists and leaned back on the balls of his feet to kneel on the bed, his markings still bright blue against the warm glow of the room.

“Strip,” he said. 

Hawke pushed herself up to sit across from him. Stripping was easy enough. She slowly lifted the tunic over her head and tossed it onto the floor, then began unraveling the roll of fabric that suppressed her chest when she wore her breastplate. His eyes followed her hands in drifting movements as she slowly released the bonds. The last few lengths fell away, and she discarded the roll and groaned, arching as she stretched out her back. She could feel the indentations across her skin, the lines red and sore from a long day of being compressed. She ran her hands over her breasts, her nipples hardening as they met cool air. She saw his eyes flick to them, but he stayed back. He swallowed and looked down to her smalls. 

“Those too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, leaning back against the headboard to slide the thin cotton down her thighs, savoring the way his eyes tracked every inch. Once they were to her ankles, she delicately lifted one leg, then flicked them across the room. As she went to close her legs again, he sprung forward, catching her knees in his hands. 

“Open them,” he commanded. There was a wicked smile on his lips now.

The need was practically pounding as she widened her thighs, exposing herself for him to see. A warmth bloomed through her, her heart tightening in her chest as his eyes trailed down the curve of her breasts, across the muscles of her stomach, to the slick pink flesh between her legs. He actually licked his lips when his eyes met hers again.

Without thinking, her hand reached down to touch herself, the pulsing begging for something, anything, to answer it. She only made it to her lower stomach before he stopped her hand. 

“No.” The word caught in his throat, like he hadn’t spoken in years and was only now finding his voice. The gravel rough sound of it sent those familiar sparks across her skin.

“Fenris.” Another plea. 

He leaned forward until his face was inches from hers. He was so beautiful. The wideness of his eyes, the shape of his nose, the way his cheekbones made elegant lines down the sides his face. Every line was sharp. He was all edges and points, only his lips were soft. His lips. Her eyes slid down to them. His lips were so close. She could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the bitterness of the wine they had drunk.

His lips pressed against hers, gently at first, but soon his tongue was in her mouth, her body pressed against his as he pulled her up to him by a fistful of her hair. Their mouths opened wide for one another, tongues brushing and searching. A low growl rumbled in the back of his throat as she reached for the hardness pressed against her upper thigh, slipping her hand inside his waistband to stroke the smooth, hot length of him. She wanted him inside her. Needed him inside her. Her fingers found the laces-- 

He pulled away, his eyes shining, his lips wet.

“No.” 

“Fenris,” she repeated, barely more than a moan this time. She was starting to regret this idea.

“No,” he said again. He drew back further, leaving her to slump against the headboard. "And no touching yourself," he added, glancing down pointedly to her hand wandering lower once more.

She felt a physical ache as he climbed off the bed, still watching her to be sure she didn’t disobey his orders. His long fingers tugged at the lacing on the front of his trousers, loosening the ties just enough to be able to slide them down his narrow hips. He kicked them off and added them to her own clothes pile. 

The swirling lines across his abdomen continued down, highlighting the lines of his hips, traveling further along his legs to his feet. Every line was aglow, even the two that ran along his shaft and curled around the head of his cock. He was fully hard now. It took all her willpower to remain still as he slowly began to stroke himself, his hand working lazily, as if he didn't know how wild it drove her to watch him. She wanted to go to him, trace every lyrium brand with her fingertips and then her tongue. She wanted to take the entirety of him into her throat. She wanted him to thrust himself inside of her again and again-- 

She wanted to do a lot of things. But she stayed put. He smiled.

“Good.” 

He climbed back onto the bed, his body lean and muscular like a jungle cat as he crawled forward, his eyes locked on hers. She felt her cunt throb, begging for the feel of his cock. She was desperate to touch herself--touch him--but she kept her hands at her sides, clutching at the bed sheets instead.

There was something in his hand now. A length of red cloth. The token she had given him, what was it, nine, ten years ago?

“Give me your hands.”

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two coming one day? Maybe? Who knows...
> 
> ALSO: "apostate-cum-god" is NOT sexual. It's Latin. Cool thx bye.


End file.
